Clutch

by S. M. West

  Wow. I’m blown away to discover one of my favorite songs was written by the man sitting next to me. He’s squirming in his seat, likely uncomfortable with the adoration plastered on my face.

  “So, Pansy’s an unusual name. There’s gotta be a story behind it,” he inquires, cutting through my thoughts.

  “There is.” I frown. Of all the things to talk about, they always ask about my name.

  “Care to share?” he pushes.

  “Not really.”

  Shaking my head, I stare out at the dark, desolate road. We’ve been driving for over an hour, and the sun set not too long ago. It dawns on me that taking this shortcut wasn’t smart because there aren’t many rest stops, and I need to pee.

  “C’mon, you promised not to talk, and that’s all you’ve been doing. The least you can do is answer my question.”

  “Fine,” I relent. I guess he’s right, considering I almost hit him. “My mom was following tradition. My grandmother had this whole flower/nature thing going on with her daughters’ names. My mom was Rose, my aunt was Lily, and my oldest sister is Ivy.”

  She’s the smart one, a neurologist, and the one to ream me out for all my screw-ups. Our mom passed away when I was twenty-two, and she’s since appointed herself my mother.

  “Then there’s Poppy.” She’s the one with a heart of gold. “She’s in Africa building schools. Daisy’s next, she’s a model in Europe.” The beautiful one. “That leaves me, the youngest, and the one stuck with the oddest name.” I chuckle weakly.

  “Pansy isn’t stupid, it’s unique.”

  That’s what my mom would say. Pansies were her favorite flower, and she said she had girl after girl, but the name never fit until me. She used to say, “Pansies are beautiful, unique, and resilient like you, my girl.”

  I miss my mom. I should be satisfied with what she thought of me, but it isn’t easy when others think you’re the flighty one, the stupid one. I could go on, but this line of thinking only puts me in a foul mood.

  I need to be positive for Silas, to make it up to him. He’s having a hard time if his deep sighs and clenched jaw are any indication.

  “Whatever. So, tell me, why you were hitching?”

  Like me in response to his inquiries, it’s evident he doesn’t want to talk about it. His fists curl, and he turns toward the window. Stealing a few glimpses while his attention’s diverted, it’s hard to miss how good-looking he is.

  He’s got the whole hot-rock-star thing down to a T with his long hair, piercing eyes, and neatly trimmed beard. His faded blue jeans mold to his toned thighs and his black t-shirt fits his solid chest perfectly.

  He’s casual, his clothes like a second skin. Both wrists sport thin brown leather bands, and his long fingers tell their own story with callused tips from playing the guitar.

  Clearing his throat, he turns to me. My attention is on the road, but his heated gaze blazes a path along my skin.

  “I had news that the guys didn’t want to hear. They got angry and kicked me off the bus.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, without caring that I’m prying.

  “Um…” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. Our eyes lock, his gaze measured, considering if he can trust me. “I, uh, I told them I want out of Trojan.”

  For most people, they might need a minute to gather their thoughts, a moment of silence. Not me. Like a bull seeing red, I barrel ahead.

  “What? No!” I shriek without considering how judgmental I might sound. “I mean, sorry, you do what you have to, but you guys are wildly successful. Why would you end it all?”

  “I’m not telling them to end Trojan; I’m walking away. They can go on without me and find another lead singer.”

  “Not possible.” I can’t imagine they’d find someone more talented than the songwriter of “Only.”

  He chuckles. “You don’t even like our songs. You can’t say that.”

  “Yes, I can. You’re hugely talented. Why would you walk away from it all?”

  “I don’t want the fame. It’s taken me so far away from why I started the band.” He sighs like he’s released a huge burden by saying it out loud.

  “What would you do then?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. Something to do with music, but what, I’m not sure.”

  “Wow. And your band didn’t take the news well?”

  “That’s an understatement. I’ve never seen them so pissed at me, and we’ve had our moments. All three of them wanted me off the bus. It didn’t help that Jared was out of his mind on molly. He threatened bodily harm. Even though I tried to resist, I never stood a chance. It was three against one. The fuckers left me on the side of the road with no phone, no water. They didn’t even care how the hell I was going to get home.”

  “Is that where you’re headed?”

  “Yep. We just finished our North American tour, our contract’s up for renewal, and I figured now was the time to tell them. They were already talking about getting back into the studio to write another album. I couldn’t listen to it.”

  He tugs at his bun and wild golden tresses tumble to his shoulders. Usually, I don’t go for guys with long hair—only women should have long hair—yet for the life of me, I can’t make sense of that logic as my heart flutters at sexy Silas Palmer with golden locks framing his handsome face.

  He’s exquisite, and nothing like Cody, my ex-boyfriend of two years. He’s shorter than Silas by a few inches, wider, stockier, and his white-blond hair is less than an inch from his scalp. I wouldn’t say Cody was my type either, but his boyish charm got me.

  A lot of good that did me. He ended up sleeping with his boss, a woman twenty years older and married. I have no clue what’s going on in his head, and while I felt humiliated, I didn’t love him. That was evident when I discovered them in our bed. Sadly, I’d been using him.

  He had a condo, a steady job, and could be fun, whereas I’d dropped out of my second college program. Yes, you heard me—college at my age, and no medical or legal degree to show for it.

  Since graduating high school, I’ve tried to figure out what I want to do with my life. At twenty-seven, I couldn’t argue with Ivy when she said I should have that figured out by now. She’s right.

  Thankfully, I spot a rest stop ahead. It’s only a gas station and convenience store, but it’ll have to do. We’re about two hours from our destination, I need to pee, and I’m starving.

  “I’m stopping here.” I turn into the parking lot.

  “Good idea, I’ve gotta piss.” He jumps out before the car comes to a complete stop and by the time I turn off the ignition, he’s already inside.

  When I return with my stash of food, Silas is leaning on the car. I wanted something warm, but all they had were nasty hot dogs that were more decayed than the walking dead. As I near him, he pops the final bite of a dog in his mouth. Yuck.

  “How could you eat that? Gross.” I shiver.

  “It wasn’t that bad.” He shrugs.

  “Don’t complain to me when your stomach aches. I don’t want to hear it.”

  We hop into the car and pull onto the road again as Silas delves into the plastic bag.

  “So, what’d you get?” He names each item he pulls out of the bag. “Twizzlers, salt and vinegar chips, Sour Patch Kids, peanut M&Ms, water. You didn’t get any protein—how do you expect any of this to fill you up?”

  “What are you talking about? The peanuts will.” I don’t need him criticizing my food choices. “Can you please open the chips for me?”

  While he disses my lack of nutrition, he has no problem eating my food. We snack and chat about nothing and everything—movies, what we like, what we don’t. He confesses he hasn’t seen a movie in over three years, then talks about touring and the lifestyle he leads. While at first it might be glamorous, it would be exhausting after a while.

  Then the topic of food comes up, more specifically our favorite foods. No surprise, the pound of sugar I just consumed is an anchor i
n my belly. Why is it when you’re starving, food pops into your mind? It’s pure torture.

  As he licks the salt from his fingers, the smacking of his lips gets my attention, and the pink tip of his tongue swirls around his finger as ripples of excitement shoot through my stomach like he’s licking me.

  Eyes on the road, Pansy. Eyes on the road.

  “Why are you out here?”

  “What?” She sips from the water bottle. “My mouth is wrung out from the sugar and salt.”

  “I bet,” I smirk. She consumed not only the chips but also the whole pack of Twizzlers. “Why are you out here on this road tonight?”

  “Um, that’s a long story. I’d rather not get into it.”

  “Come on; I thought we were friends,” I cajole, nudging her shoulder. “Tell me.”

  “Fine, but I’m keeping it simple and quick, and don’t interrupt. Actually, don’t say a thing even when I’m done.”

  “Got it.” I make the Boy Scout sign with my fingers. She rolls her eyes, correctly guessing I was never a Boy Scout.

  “I’m heading out for a new start. My life’s a mess. I’ve been unable to finish a college degree, and not because my grades suck. They’re excellent. It’s because I can’t make up my mind.

  “I took a couple of years after high school to figure out what interested me, and I thought I’d found my passion in event planning, so I enrolled in a hospitality program. It took two years to figure out I’d made a bad choice. I’m not an event planner. How I thought I’d enjoy the stress, the personalities, and the last-minute disasters is beyond me. I then took another couple of years to decide I wanted to be a nurse, but again, I wasn’t cut out for needles, blood, and people dying. I was miserable, so I dropped out.”

  “I’m sensing a pattern here,” I interject, unable to resist, although I should keep quiet. I’m fascinated by her story.

  “Uh-uh, you promised not to say a word. One more thing out of your mouth and I stop talking.”

  I almost challenge her by saying I’d like to see that, because I doubt she can be quiet. It’s obvious her story is hard for her to share—she’s wearing down the wheel with her roaming hands. I guess she considers herself a failure because of her lack of direction.

  To me, she’s brave enough to try new things, to want to find her true passion. I lost mine for the band years ago and kept my mouth shut for too long—so long, I ended up carelessly blurting out my departure to my bandmates and closest friends. No wonder they kicked me out.

  “Anyway, I’m now less than two weeks out of college and back to square one. About a week ago, I came home early to find my boyfriend in bed with another woman. Even though I wanted to leave, I didn’t have anywhere to go. He said I could stay until I figured things out, but that was his guilt talking, and it was such a bad idea. Two days ago, he kicked me out. His new girlfriend didn’t like me still living with him, and frankly, neither did I, so I had to go. Then…” She hesitates. “You know what? Forget it. That’s enough humiliation for one lifetime.”

  “Tell me. You can’t end it there.”

  “Fine.” Her voice is small. “I went to my older sister Ivy’s house, asking to stay with her.” She swallows and takes a deep breath before going on. “She refused. She let me stay last night but said I had to be gone today. So, this is me getting gone. Go ahead, say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Tell me how stupid I am.” She turns away from me as her hand wipes at her cheek. Is she crying?

  “Hey, all I was going to say is your ex-boyfriend and sister sound like dicks, and you should be glad you’re getting away from them.”

  Her burst of laughter comes as a surprise to both of us. With water pooling in her eyes, she smiles, and something strange and intense tugs at my heart. I like making her smile.

  “You’re right; they’re dicks.” Her voice is stronger, almost cheerful. “Anyway, now I’m on my next adventure, and I’ve got no clue where I’m going.”

  “I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It sounds exciting, and it’s courageous and smart.”

  “What? Really?” She whips her head in my direction, eyes wide with surprise. I point my finger back at the road, motioning for her to watch where she’s driving.

  “Yeah. You’ve got the courage to explore different things, and you’re smart for wanting to find your passion. Too many people get stuck in a job because that’s what we’re all told to do—go to school, find a job, make a living, have a family, blah, blah, blah. You’re not following the herd. You’ve stopped to listen to your heart and figure out what the hell it is you want to do with your life. So, you’re not only contributing to society, but it also means something to you. That’s smart.”

  Pansy’s smile is blinding even in the darkness of the car, and the faint light from the driver’s panel illuminates her glittering eyes. My sense is not many people encourage or support her.

  The car begins to shimmy and shake. She whips her head back to the road, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

  With a small scream, she cries, “What the hell is going on? I didn’t hit anything. It’s listing to the right.”

  “Pull over,” I order, helping to steer the car to the side of the road.

  The ride is bumpy and jerky as she slowly and carefully brings us to a stop. Simultaneously, we jump out of the car. The front passenger side tire is a sad sight, deflated and misshapen.

  “Fuck. Seriously?” I yell, gripping my hair.

  “Shit. It’s probably from the pothole I hit hours ago.”

  “You should have been watching the fucking road, and this wouldn’t have happened,” I fire at her. Her calm tone infuriates me more. “Who goes straight for a fucking pothole? Now what the fuck are we going to do?”

  Pansy gasps, taking several steps away from me. Frowning, she tightens her jaw and purses her lips. “You don’t have to be a jerk. I didn’t deliberately do it, and I already apologized for it.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I’m sure there’s a spare. We’ll change it and be on our way.”

  Striding past me, she goes in search of the spare while I stand there stewing in my anger. I just want to get back on the damn bus—why is it so hard? Am I asking for too much? I don’t fucking think so.

  Her grunting and groaning pull me out of my gloom. This slip of a woman is giving it her all in trying to lift the spare tire out of the car, and she’s getting nowhere. If I were in a different frame of mind, I’d find it amusing.

  Instead, I’m stunned by her round, luscious ass sticking up in the air. Her jean shorts are so short, her creamy ass cheeks peek out from the denim, as well as a sliver of her black lace panties.

  I snarl at my body’s reaction to her; angry and turned on are the last things I want to be right now. “Get out of the way.” Moving her, I yank the tire, jack, and other necessary items out of the car. “Stand back.”

  “No wonder you were kicked off the bus,” she mutters under her breath.

  Stopping, I glare at her. She’s straightening her clothes and finger-combing her hair away from her face, oblivious to me. When our eyes do meet, instead of backing down as any sane person would, she stands her ground, chest out, chin up, and glowers back. Her hair’s disheveled, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. My cock stirs to life.

  Shaking my head at this game I don’t have time to play, I grind my teeth and will my dick down. Dismissing her, I get to work.

  It’s not long before I need help. The flashlight—which was stowed in the car, thank goodness—is tricky to hold between my teeth while unscrewing the busted tire. The light flickers in and out, and I’m unable to steady the beam.

  “Pans, some help here would be appreciated.” My tone’s snarky.

  “Do not call me Pans. My name is Pansy. Try asking nicely, and I’ll consider helping.” She’s snooty.

  Throwing the tool and flashlight to the ground, I growl, “Fucking forget it. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Good! I’m done with you.” She pivots and sto
mps off into the dark.

  Her long red mane sways in time with her ass and curves. Fuck her. I seriously don’t have the time or the patience for her theatrics. If she wants to act like a drama queen, she can go right ahead, but I won’t be her audience.

  It takes another twenty minutes to finish the task, and she hasn’t come back, which surprises me. I definitely expected her to return. It’s pitch black and who the fuck knows what wild animals are lurking out there.

  My concern grows the longer I’m alone. She isn’t to blame for the flat tire, and the thought of something happening to her because of my rash temper leaves a nasty taste in my mouth and a hollowing in my chest. I’m a bastard.

  Throwing the lame tire and other things in the car, I hop into the driver’s seat. Thank fuck she left the keys. The engine roars to life with a press of the ignition button, and the headlights cast a long shaft of light across the dark expanse.

  Not too far off, brown leather cowboy boots dissect the slanted beam, and Pansy’s trim frame comes into view. Her long hair is a tousled mess with strands flying in her face, and her shirt molds to her small breasts. The light catches every bouncing curve and appealing sashay of her jean-clad hips as she marches toward the car.

  Yanking the driver’s side door open, she stands, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed on me. “This is my car. If anyone should be walking, it’s you. Get out.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is low and remorseful—or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

  “And that makes it all right?” I understand he was upset, and he had every right to be, but I’m not his verbal punching bag. When he opens his mouth to respond, I cut him off. I’m not done. “Cars get flat tires, and I didn’t deserve to be yelled at or mistreated. Now, I’d like you to please get out of my car. This is where we part ways.”

  He sighs, running his hand through his wild locks as he steps out of the car. I’m forced to step back if I don’t want him right on me. Standing less than three inches from me, he tugs on my shoulder, halting my retreat. My body reacts to our proximity, tingles spreading through me.